A Harvest of Thorns

by Corban Addison

  From Rohit—Indian American, late forties, small-business owner: “I bet the lawyers made the whole thing up. Lawyers are bloodsuckers. Businesses like Presto are the American dream. They create jobs. They give people what they want.”

  From Aylan—twenty-four, law student, Lebanese ancestry, within earshot of Rohit: “I don’t know what that guy’s problem is. Lawyers are the good guys. Corporations only care about the bottom line. I’m not here for myself. I’m here for my girlfriend. She’s dying to get this green handbag that looks like Prada. I hope it doesn’t sell out.”

  The most insightful commentary, however, came from a pair of women who at first glance could not have been more different from one another. Alisa was a suburban housewife from Falls Church with a husband in middle management at a tech company, two kids in private school, an Internet business, and a master’s degree in child psychology. Donna was a college dropout and recently divorced, whose ex-husband, a long-distance truck driver, was always late on his alimony payments. She worked two jobs to feed four kids and could barely afford to lease a townhouse in Front Royal. When Josh approached them, they were strangers, united only by the crush of the crowd. But his questions bridged the gap and got them talking.

  “My daddy worked in meatpacking,” Donna said. “He was always getting injured on the job, always going to the ER. Then he had a heart attack. Now he’s living on disability. His company did nothing for him, even after twenty years. But companies are like that. They do what they do to make a profit, and the rest of us don’t think about it. I’m that way. Bet you are too. That jacket you’re wearing—nice leather. You know where it came from? How about those loafers? Heard bad things about shoe factories. See what I mean? We’re all in on it.”

  “She’s right,” Alisa affirmed. “I’ve actually done research on this. This isn’t just about Presto. A lot of companies have gotten into trouble making products overseas. And not just clothes either. It’s everything. But consumers are clueless—all of us are. How do we tell what’s good from what’s bad? When I go to the grocery, I look at the labels. I buy organic and stay away from GMOs. When I buy a dress or a toy for my kids, it’s not the same. It makes me angry that people are being exploited making some of the things I buy. It makes me angry that companies are selling those things to me without telling me. But, honestly, what am I supposed to do about it? Stop buying things? Even ‘Made in the USA’ isn’t always clean.”

  Just then, lights flashed and sirens wailed inside the store. The doors slid open and the crowd surged ahead, sweeping Alisa and Donna and Josh along with the current. When they reached the bank of blue Presto shopping carts, Alisa tossed them a “Happy Thanksgiving” and disappeared down an aisle. Donna, however, stopped short, causing a collision between two other shoppers. She stepped out of the melee and found a place by the wall, watching the action with a quizzical frown. Josh joined her, notepad at the ready.

  “You know what?” she said. “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t think I’m going to shop here tonight. I’m going to do a little research myself. Maybe she’s right and there isn’t anything we can do. But I don’t like the feeling of buying things blind.”

  “Mind if I quote you on that?” Josh asked.

  “Go ahead,” Donna said as shoppers whizzed by. “It’ll make my daddy proud.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  STATE ROUTE 29

  OUTSIDE WARRENTON, VIRGINIA

  DECEMBER 1, 2015

  10:36 A.M.

  The road to Charlottesville was winding and scenic, a divided highway through rolling farmland fringed by the Blue Ridge Mountains. It was a route Cameron knew all too well. It was the road on which Olivia had fallen asleep in the dark hours of an April morning, never imagining that the tarmac illumined by the headlights was the last thing her eyes would see.

  The irony was so rich it was almost ridiculous. For as long as Hassan v. Presto remained on the docket, Cameron would have to make the trip south for every hearing, would have to pass not once, but twice, the infuriatingly flat, arrow-straight stretch of pavement where exhaustion had drawn his eyelids shut, where the wheels of his SUV had veered off the road, and where his sleep-addled instinct had caused him to overcorrect, sending the vehicle into three barrel rolls that scattered glass over a hundred feet and stole the most wonderful woman he had ever known.

  That Lewis Ames had filed the lawsuit in Virginia was another thing Cameron hadn’t anticipated. He was intimately familiar with the contours of domestic law—what law there was—governing the overseas treatment of workers by US corporations. He had predicted that Lewis would file in California. The courts there were among the most liberal in the nation and had presided over the biggest triumvirate of lawsuits in the history of apparel manufacturing, Does I v. The Gap, Inc., which had yielded a twenty-million-dollar settlement in favor of exploited workers from Saipan. Virginia, by contrast, was a pro-business state. To Cameron, Lewis’s choice had seemed like a gift—until Rusty Blackwell called him with the news.

  “I heard from the judge,” the lawyer had said, his voice low and raspy, the product of a pack-a-day lifestyle that only the patch had helped him kick. “We didn’t get the guy who normally sits in Charlottesville. We got Ambrose Chandler, chief judge of the district. He and Lewis have a history together. Their families go way back.”

  Shit, Cameron thought. “Is there any way to get him recused?”

  Rusty grunted. “We’re going to give it a shot. If nothing else, we can rein him in, keep him careful. He wants to see us in chambers tomorrow. No public, no press. I think you should be there. If you’d like, we can drive down together.”

  Cameron had accepted Rusty’s invitation but declined the ride. He didn’t want Rusty to see what happened when the memories came back.

  The site was just minutes away now, half a mile south of the town of Opal. He had considered taking a roundabout route, but he knew he couldn’t avoid it forever. Better to get it over with. He gripped the wheel tighter, shame and self-hatred entwined around his heart. He wrestled with them in silence as the autumn countryside flew by, trees bending in the wind, leaves swirling beneath his tires. Then he saw it—the guardrail and telephone poles and steep grassy median. He looked away and felt the pain afresh. It was the first time he had been back since the accident, the first time since the ambulances had carried them away in a terror of lights and sirens, Olivia on a gurney, Cameron behind her with only lacerations and bruised ribs.

  He let off the gas and pulled to the shoulder, his eyes burning, his face wet. He rested his forehead against the wheel and forced himself to breathe. Why didn’t you just stop? Why did you have to keep pushing? They were questions he had pondered a thousand times, but as always he came up empty. There were no reasons, just the brute fact of what had happened.

  “I’m so sorry, Livie,” he said through clenched teeth. “I’m so sorry.”

  Minutes passed and cars drove by, but Cameron remained still, his mind besieged by memories. A patrolman on the radio with dispatch: Single vehicle. Cadillac SUV. The driver’s okay, but the passenger’s in bad shape. I can’t find a pulse. The ER doctor, female, thin lips and sad eyes: She didn’t make it. I’m so sorry. Olivia’s mother at the funeral, hands shaking, voice crumbling: It was an accident. We don’t blame you. And, finally, his own mother a year later: You have a choice to make, Cameron. You can die with her every day. Or you can make the rest of your life mean something. What would she want you to do?

  He had known the truth, of course, but not what to do with it. He was at the summit of his career, but what did it matter? Where was the meaning in anything? In time he had submerged his perplexity in productivity, driving himself to the limits of his power to protect the people he had left—Vance, the board, Presto. He had vowed to himself that he would never fall asleep again. Then Millennium went up in flames and Presto washed its hands. That was when the answers came. Presto didn’t just need protection. It needed a new conscience.

  Cameron opened h
is eyes and brought his emotions under control. He looked into the distance and saw the sign to Charlottesville. Ambrose Chandler wasn’t the judge he wanted, but the law was the law. He and Rusty would find a way to make it work.

  Help me, Livie, he said in his heart. Give me the strength to turn this ship around.

  Fifty minutes later, Cameron parked in the garage on Water Street and walked up the pedestrian mall to the courthouse at the top of the hill. In the pantheon of federal buildings, it was an obscure demiurge, a rectangular block of red brick with no grand entrance or marble halls, just a metal detector and an elevator that led to a spiderweb of corridors and the chambers of the district judge. Rusty was waiting for him in the sitting area with two associates.

  Cameron greeted them and gave Rusty a laconic smile. “I miss the days when you smelled like an ashtray. It always inspired confidence.”

  Rusty’s laugh turned into a cough. “The world has gotten too damn civilized.”

  He showed Cameron to a windowless conference room with a table and chairs.

  “Is Lewis in with the judge?” Cameron asked when they were seated.

  Rusty nodded. “He was swapping stories with Chandler’s secretary when we showed up. They’re quite chummy, but it won’t matter.” He patted his briefcase. “We’ve got enough to put the judge on his heels.”

  Cameron leaned forward in his chair, his eyes ablaze with intensity. “I don’t have to tell you how much this means. The past three weeks have been the most volatile in Presto’s history. Black Friday didn’t reassure the market. We’ve got activist funds taking aim at the board. We need to kill this case on the pleadings. If we go to trial, all hell is going to break loose.”

  “You’ve got my A-team,” Rusty assured him. “We’re going to find a way to stop it.”

  Cameron heard a knock at the door and opened it, and a uniformed bailiff said, “The judge is ready for you. Plaintiffs’ counsel is already situated.”

  They stood together and followed the bailiff down the hall to chambers. The Honorable Ambrose Pickens Chandler was waiting for them in front of an antique bookcase. He invited them in with handshakes and a welcoming grin that looked more politician than judge. His features reinforced the impression. He had a round, fleshy face with bushy white eyebrows, a balding pate, and sky-blue eyes that sparkled when he smiled.

  Lewis was standing beside the judge’s desk, chatting with Madison. Cameron had met him only once, at an award dinner fifteen years ago. Lewis was older now, his hair silver, his cheeks a ruddy pink, like a man too fond of his liquor. But his gaze was stiletto tipped.

  “Cameron,” Lewis said, pumping his hand and giving him a look that seemed almost appreciative. “I’m so sorry about your mother. How is Ben holding up?”

  “He’s hanging in there,” Cameron lied, feeling unnerved. He hadn’t spoken to his father since his mother’s funeral. But it wasn’t the thought of Ben that bothered him. It was Lewis’s too-familiar demeanor. He knows, Cameron intuited, keeping his expression friendly despite his irritation. He wasn’t completely surprised. He had put the odds at fifty-fifty that Lewis would demand the truth before signing on to the lawsuit. Still, the added exposure was unsettling. Josh was a manageable risk; the photos and wire transfer slip guaranteed his silence. But Cameron had nothing to keep Lewis and Madison quiet beyond the regard they had for Ben.

  “A pleasure, Mr. Alexander,” Madison said. “Your father was my favorite professor.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Cameron replied, forcing a smile.

  “Sit down, sit down,” said the judge, motioning for a young woman in a pantsuit to join them. “This is Ashley, one of my clerks. There should be enough chairs.”

  The bailiff had arranged the seating in an arc around the judge’s desk. When everyone was situated, Judge Chandler held out his hands toward the windows behind him.

  “This courthouse is an Orwellian disgrace,” he said wryly, “but at least they gave us a view.” In an instant, his grin disappeared. “This is a monumental case. It has implications not just for Presto but for thousands of American companies that source their products overseas. I called you here because I’m not happy with the way it began.” To Cameron’s surprise, the judge looked at Lewis sternly. “That was quite a stunt you pulled with the media. I don’t want to see it again. Either you try this case in court or in the press. You can’t have it both ways.”

  “Understood, Your Honor,” Lewis replied.

  Just as quickly, the judge turned his displeasure toward Rusty. “As for your motion for sanctions, I’m overruling it now. It offends me when big-firm lawyers throw Rule 11 around like a bludgeon, intimidating plaintiffs with the threat of legal fees. The complaint is creative but not beyond the pale. We’ll resolve this case on the merits. Is that clear?”

  Rusty cleared his throat, undaunted by the judge’s glare. “Your Honor, if I may, our sanctions motion raises questions of fact that can’t be resolved without a proper hearing. A perfunctory dismissal would be a violation of due process.”

  Judge Chandler peered at him without blinking. “What exactly are you referring to?”

  Rusty spoke the accusation candidly. “We have reason to believe that the plaintiffs’ counsel drafted the complaint for the media, not the court; that their intention in pulling that ‘stunt’ on my client’s doorstep, to use Your Honor’s phrase, was to incite the media to harass Presto and damage its image at a critical moment in the business cycle; and that the plaintiffs’ ‘creative’ legal claims are nothing more than cover for a brazen attempt to extort a settlement.”

  “That’s outrageous,” Lewis hissed. “You have no right—”

  The judge held up a hand. “Mr. Blackwell, you’re talking about sharp practice—the worst kind of bad faith. I’ve known Lewis Ames for most of my life. His reputation is unimpeachable. A hearing will only waste the court’s time.”

  “I disagree,” Rusty pressed. “It will give me a chance to cross-examine witnesses—Mr. Ames, Ms. Ames, her husband, Joshua Griswold, and Mr. Griswold’s father who runs the PR firm behind the press conference. Mr. Griswold is a journalist of dubious character. His involvement is prima facie evidence that this case was manufactured for the media.”

  Cameron saw Rusty’s angle. It was a perfect trap.

  Judge Chandler sat back in his chair. “Lewis,” he said, his tone subdued, “what is your relationship to Mr. Griswold, beyond the obvious?”

  “He’s an investigator and consulting attorney,” Lewis replied evenly. “He did the initial overseas research, and he found the plaintiffs.”

  The judge nodded. “Did he have anything to do with drafting the complaint?”

  “No, Your Honor,” Lewis said. “He only reviewed it for accuracy.”

  “And did you file the complaint to harass, injure, or extort a settlement from Presto?”

  Lewis shook his head. “Of course not. Do we want this case to count? Yes. Do we want the public to know about it? Absolutely. But we’ve done everything by the book.”

  Judge Chandler shrugged. “That’s all the testimony I need. The motion for sanctions is overruled. Now, let’s talk about a hearing on Presto’s motion to dismiss—”

  “Your Honor,” Rusty interjected, pulling a document out of his briefcase. “I didn’t want to do this, but I’m afraid I have no choice.” He placed the document on the judge’s desk and handed a copy to Lewis. “This is a motion for recusal. No one’s seen it yet, but I’ll file it tomorrow unless you agree to reassign the case.”

  The judge stared at the motion as if it were leprous.

  “You said it yourself,” Rusty went on. “You’ve known Mr. Ames most of your life. In fact, your families are very close. You’ve vacationed together at the beach, played golf together, and attended the weddings of each other’s children. Had I requested a hearing on sanctions before any other judge, I would have gotten it. But you took Mr. Ames at his word after virtually no questioning—which confirms what I suspected. You’re b
iased, Your Honor. Whether you intend to do it or not, you’re going to give the plaintiffs an edge.”

  For a long moment, no one in chambers seemed to breathe. Cameron studied the judge. He saw the anger burning in his eyes. It was righteous anger but not completely pure. Behind it was something darker—the faintest shadow of guilt.

  At last, Judge Chandler spoke, his voice as brittle as ice. “You better have something more than that, Mr. Blackwell, or I’m going to hold you in contempt.”

  Rusty pointed at the motion on the judge’s desk. “It’s all in there, Your Honor. You’ve been on the bench for ten years, yet this is the first case you’ve ever taken in Charlottesville. You have a soft spot for plaintiffs and a prejudice against corporate defendants. In cases between individuals and corporations, you’ve ruled for the individuals 68 percent of the time. You’re an intelligent man and a learned jurist. But Presto is not going to get a fair hearing in your courtroom, not with Lewis Ames on the other side.”

  As Cameron watched, the judge wavered. He looked down at the motion, his thoughts imponderable. Then his lips curled into a smile. “File the motion, Mr. Blackwell. Preserve the point for appeal. But I have every intention of keeping this case. Unless you have proof of misconduct, the Fourth Circuit will run you out on a rail.”

  Rusty stared at the judge for pregnant seconds, then nodded and said no more.

  He made his point, Cameron thought. Lewis’s advantage is gone.

  “Now that we’re all on the same page,” the judge said, opening his calendar. “Let’s talk about scheduling. How does March 1 look for a hearing on Presto’s motion to dismiss?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  UNITED STATES COURTHOUSE

  CHARLOTTESVILLE, VIRGINIA

  MARCH 1, 2016